


all-natural

by Trojie



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Blow Jobs, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, The Author Regrets Nothing, Touring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-20
Updated: 2017-09-20
Packaged: 2018-12-31 20:17:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12140298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trojie/pseuds/Trojie
Summary: Sometimes Andy's straightedge thing harshes Mikey's urge to party, it's true, but y'know what, there are other ways to get chemicals in your system. All-natural, 100% vegan, cruelty-free chemicals, straight from your own hindbrain.





	all-natural

**Author's Note:**

> Some pairings you just wanna write for the aesthetic, okay. The working title of this fic was literally 'Andy/Mikey because whatever', so. Thanks for stopping by my burning dumpster, I love you all <3

So here's the thing about Andy Hurley; he doesn't fucking talk all the time, unlike some people Mikey could mention. Not that Mikey doesn't love those people, not that he in any way _doesn't_ want to hang out with them on buses or in semi-hotboxed tents or behind the endless rows of portapotties out of the wind in the kind of desperate corner only smokers will ever find. 

It's just that it's also nice, sometimes, to hang out instead with someone who can say everything they need to say in three sly words and a raised eyebrow. Sometimes Andy's straightedge thing harshes Mikey's urge to party, it's true, but y'know what, there are other ways to get chemicals in your system. All-natural, 100% vegan, cruelty-free chemicals, straight from your own hindbrain.

Mikey's escaped the chaos of kicking, videogames and eyeliner on his bus for a quiet patch of shade at the edge of the band parking lot, to lie on the grass and text people back home, just like, check in, that kind of thing. The sun is warm on his feet, which are poking out of the shadow of the straggly tree he's found, when someone kicks lightly at his Vans. 

He looks up from his sidekick and shades his eyes. 'Hey, Hurley,' he says, because maybe all he can see is a silhouette but it's a silhouette with a floppy mop of hair and no shirt, so who else is it gonna be?

'Hey,' says Andy. 'Hiding?'

'Always,' says Mikey. He pats the grass next to him. 'You?'

'You know it.' He flops to the ground next to Mikey and stretches out like the scratch and tickle of the ground against his skin is something he wants to savour. He's a fucking weirdo but he's a fucking weirdo who never offers running commentary on either his own weirdnesses or Mikey's, so Mikey leaves it alone and lets Hurley butt their knees together and luxuriate in his, like dustbath or whatever, and goes back to texting. 

He runs through everything he missed while onstage or otherwise doing actual tour shit that he's supposed to do because he's in a band and this is somehow now his day job, and then he shoves the phone back in his pocket and puts his arms behind his head. The warm air is nice when you have some shade to be in, makes it pleasant instead of like being in a bake oven. Mikey sort of dozes off, maybe, a little. Touring fucks with his sleep schedule, shut up.

Andy nudges him a little later. Mikey cracks an eye and turns his head, and gets a raised eyebrow and a quirked corner of a mouth. No points for guessing what Andy's after when he ghosts his hand down Mikey's side, could be an accidental touch but never is, never with Andy. Nothing's ever accidental and nothing's ever ambiguous with Hurley, and that's why Mikey likes him. 

So Mikey shrugs and smiles, like, yeah, okay, c'mon then, and Andy pushes himself up on his elbows and reaches across to touch Mikey's cheek, thumb his lower lip, firmly; no bullshit in what he's suggesting. 

'Yeah, okay. C'mon then,' says Mikey out loud, and sits up. 'You know somewhere?'

Andy always knows somewhere, because he's always got his eyes open and he's never wasted. This time, this venue, it's a dark little corner formed by packing crates and the edge of one of the stages, and black poly tarps that flap just occasionally when the breeze decides to blow. Mikey follows Andy right to it but it's him that takes Andy's wrist and pulls him in, feeling the smile already curling at the edge of his mouth because he's kind of a freak and he likes this sneaking around shit, likes having a secret in plain sight. 

He likes the way Andy's hands go under his shirt immediately, too; sliding up his back and rucking the fabric up, pulling Mikey up right between his planted-wide thighs so their bare bellies butterfly-touch with every breath as they kiss. Mikey sinks his fingers into Andy's hair and pulls right back.

They stagger, bounce like a pinball around the tiny space, and make the tarps flap with more than just the breeze every time a foot or an elbow catches them, until Mikey's hips finally hit something solid enough to stop his momentum. Andy grinds him into it, bites into his mouth a little and pulls back til his teeth slide-scrape over Mikey's lower lip and click together when he finally lets go. 'Yeah?' he asks, licking his own lips. 

Mikey's eyes get caught on Andy's mouth, his labret piercing, the ink on his sternum that must have hurt like a bitch to get. Everything about him is so sharp, so pointed. 'Yeah,' Mikey breathes, because his attention's already lower. 

He goes to his knees and wraps his hands around Andy's hips, which isn't hard. His fingers practically meet in the small of Andy's back, over his tiny ass. 'You need to eat more,' he says, looking up at Andy and shaking his head. 

Andy rolls his eyes and pulls at Mikey's glasses til they come off, dislodging his beanie on the way. 'Pot, kettle,' he says, and Mikey isn't worried about where his glasses are going because he knows Andy wouldn't fuck with them, so instead he lets himself be gently nudged closer to Andy's fly. 

Everything's warm, it's the middle of fucking summer, but Andy's cock in his shorts, under Mikey's cheek, is hot. Mikey rubs up against it for a moment, letting his mouth hang open, drag a little against Andy just to feel him twitch, but he lets Andy undo his fly when he reaches down to do it. It doesn't help anyone's plausible deniability to walk out of here with a ginormous wet spot on your pants. 

Mikey's already lipping softly at him when Andy lets go of his shorts and cups Mikey's face instead, all square fingers and different calluses to Mikey's. Mikey grins up at him for a second and then opens up for his dick. Andy takes it easy, steady - for about two strokes. Maybe he's already getting towards fucking Mikey's face not even ten seconds in, but Mikey's kneeling up for it and rocking his head in counterpoint - they're on the same beat here. Andy's leaking, sharp-tasting and unfeasibly clean for on-tour, freshly showered clearly, and Mikey's mouth waters for it, makes it all slip and slide so easy, lips sore at the corners and puffing from the way his teeth catch as he tries to cover them, and he loves it. 

'Look good down there,' says Andy, and Mikey smirks, because hell yes he does. 

Andy has hold of him but good, so Mikey reaches for his own fly, his own cock, gets it out and strips it fast. There's only so long any hideyhole will stay private on tour and there's only so long Mikey's phone will stay silent, and more than that, there's only so long any reasonable man could hold out with Andy Hurley telling them they have a pretty mouth, and fucking it. 

There's a sudden grab at Mikey's beanie - Andy's pulled it half off in his attempt to get a handful of Mikey's hair and hold him back. Mikey's dick jerks in his hand. 'Gonna come,' Andy grits out quietly, hips twitching like he can't stop himself, still hanging on Mikey's lower lip and shallow-fucking like it's an autonomic response. 'You want -'

Mikey wrenches his head free of Andy's grip by sacrificing the beanie, and pushes himself down over Andy's cock til he can't take any more of it, stripping at himself frantically and trying to make sure his own jeans and Andy's shins are out of the way, because he's gonna too, he's gonna - and the way Andy's holding his head again like Mikey made his choice and now Andy's gonna see it through for him, it's enough to get him there.

He's halfway on fire, molten, his own dick wet in his hand and mouth sloppy-warm-numb, when Andy's fingers clench so hard in his hair the sting makes him gasp. 

'Fuck,' Andy hisses, and all of a sudden Mikey can't breathe right, mouth flooded, senses flooded, and oh, yeah, that's the good shit, every capillary in his body shrieking with … shock or sugar or something else boiling and sweet. Mikey comes all over the hard-packed dirt with Andy's hands sliding down to his neck and shoulders, petting him as they both pant and Mikey leans his forehead into Andy's thigh. 

Somewhere outside their tiny space, someone's playing a set, and the way the sound bounces through into here, they sound off-time. It sets Mikey's teeth a little on edge. He's just found his beanie again and is shaking the dirt off it when Andy pulls him to his feet. Mikey jams the hat back on while Andy does his miraculously non-sticky jeans up for him. 

He wipes his thumb at the corner of Mikey's mouth. 'You good?' he asks.

Mikey licks at that thumb a little, and smiles. 'Glasses?' he asks. 

Andy hands them back to him, and then catches his arm before he can turn. 'Seriously,' he says. 'You good?' and Mikey remembers that Andy's band is just as fucking melodramatic as his is. Maybe Andy has good reasons to double check on people. 

Mikey steals a kiss, and Andy's teeth catch his lip a little hard, a little sweetly, before Mikey pulls back and looks him in the eye. 'Yeah,' he says. 'I'm good. Are you good?'

Andy's mouth quirks in a smile. 'Always.'

That's the nice thing about Andy Hurley.


End file.
